


The Art of Leaving

by Zaxal



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone leaves eventually, and sometimes they come back. But not for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Leaving

When his father leaves, Carlton is eight. He doesn't understand it, asks his mother every night when Dad's coming home. The months building up to it were full of loud conversations, slamming doors, Dad sleeping on the couch. If Carlton had a nightmare, he'd toddle to him, and his Dad would tell him stories, his voice lulling him to sleep.

"I'm sorry, Booker," is the last thing he says, a whispered apology as he tucks his middle child in bed. They get calls every now and then on birthdays and holidays, but he never visits. Never says where he is or when he's coming home. When he stops calling, Carlton stops celebrating his birthday. It isn't special anymore.

Some of the other kids make fun of him, say that he doesn't have a Dad. He gets into a fistfight, has to sit in the corner with a bruised cheek and a heavy heart. They say it's his fault, and the teacher believes them. Carlton believes them too, believes that if he had been a better son then his Dad would still be around. That his parents never would have fought. That their family would be good and whole.

He never tells anyone this, and no one ever notices. He keeps it to himself, the only secret he has.

 

When his brother leaves, Carlton is fourteen. Greg gets into his truck and drives off to see the world, leaving Carlton, Lauren, and their mother behind. He never calls, never writes, leaves them in the dust. Carlton becomes the man of the house, fights off his unhappiness with schoolwork and studying. This phase lasts through most of college. He's going to be a police officer. He's going to protect people. Help them.

It gives him purpose, keeps him from rambling along, keeps him grounded.

He refuses to leave, too. Carlton works a job on the side against his mother's wishes, uses his money to pay for his tuition and giving things to Lauren. The way their dad should have been all this time.

A letter arrives while he's in the police academy with his father's name scrawled on the front in handwriting that Carlton has mostly forgotten. He puts it to the side, ignores it and the renewed hurt. Part of him wants to rip it up, burn it, cut all ties forever.

But he can't. Because deep, deep down, there's part of him that wants to believe that they'll both come back someday.

 

When Victoria leaves, Carlton is in his late thirties, no longer bothering to keep a real count of the years. He can't say it was surprising – he wasn't a good husband, wasn't good enough. He should have learned that ages ago, but now he knows. He tries again and again, tries to be that person he needs to be but can't.

He hopes that if he tries hard enough, it'll be enough. It isn't.

Carlton resigns himself to loneliness. Gives up on being something more and simply accepts that he isn't worth sticking around for. Does what he does best and doesn't worry about a personal life. He dates here and there, fleeting attempts, last grabs at humanity, but it slips so easily away.

He becomes his job. And when people interfere with that job, he has to take them aside, explain why they need to stop. And if he finds himself staring into hazel eyes, it's loneliness and desperation. Neither of which he ever intends to give in to.

 

When Shawn leaves, Carlton is in his forties. He's been expecting it for years now, their delicate balance constantly teetering between failure and having a real honest-to-God chance. He wakes up one day to find his bed empty and a hurried note, scribbled out that says he had to get away. "It's not you, it's me."

Carlton knows it's him, but he loves Shawn all the more for trying.

Love. That's what put an end to his happiness. A whispered "I love you" when they fell into bed together. Shawn had responded with enthusiasm. He had dared allow himself to hope.

Something in him breaks. He finds the letter from his father, unopened after all these years, and tears it open. It says that if he's reading it, then his father is most likely dead. It says how much he loves Carlton (but he left) and how proud he is (but he didn't come back) and how much he wishes he could go back and change it all (he stopped calling; he stopped writing; he was done).

The end of the letter asks about Greg and Lauren and about his fiance, and he rips it apart with his bare hands, paper confetti raining down around him. He leaves the mess there for almost an hour as he sinks down onto the couch, head buried in his hands, fighting off despair and self-loathing until it finally wears him down.

The following months are cold and gray. He loses his enthusiasms, becomes so pathetically off-kilter that he hardly even notices how much he's slipping. He wakes up every morning and thinks in terms of his job and what he needs to do. Never spares a thought for Carlton himself, and why should he?

He's been shown time and again that Carlton Lassiter doesn't matter.

 

When Shawn comes back, Carlton is forty four. He counts the years because Shawn asks him to, arms around his neck, smiling so happily like it's been only a night since they've last seen each other. "I needed time and space, Lassie, but I've got it all figured out now."

"You came back," he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. He doesn't understand, can't comprehend it in the slightest. Shawn nods brightly, still touching him, hugging him tightly like he might be the one to suddenly vanish. "Why?"

"I just needed a while to think." It's been at least a year. A year of thinking, and that led Shawn back here. Back to him. "Had to figure everything out, yknow?"

"No. I don't." He doesn't understand. Leaving? Yes. He understands leaving, the act of going, forgetting what's behind you and only looking ahead. Running away, maybe, from whatever it is behind you. Coming back, though? No one ever comes back. At least not for him.

"It was too much. I don't... It's hard," Shawn explains quietly, shuffling his feet around on the ground nervously. Still holding onto Carlton. "Or it was for a long time." He smiles warmly. "I love you too, Lassie."

He doesn't understand, but he kisses Shawn anyway, holds him tightly against his body and refuses to let go until they're both desperate for air. This doesn't make sense to him, still. Things like this? They never happen for him. Carlton isn't sure he'll believe it until he sees it.

But then again. With Shawn kissing him. Here. Now. Back again. He finds himself willing to believe.

And if Shawn is the only one who comes back, it'll be more than enough for him.


End file.
